


A Sporting Chance

by Notabluemaia



Series: The Quest and Beyond [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bag End, Darts, Homecoming, Illustrations, M/M, Post-Quest, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Quest, Frodo and Sam try to restore Bag End and their Shire. With time and luck, hard work and pluck, even what has been too deeply hurt might have a sporting chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sporting Chance

  
**A Sporting Chance**  
Notabluemaia

  
  
  


~***~

  
  
"Your cousins most likely are already there. They'll be expecting you!" Sam shook his head, smiling. "Dear one, you might enjoy it, and _you_ might even want to throw a few – you were one of the best, you know. Your old darts can't be found, but I'm sure Pippin would share his new ones."  
  
"There will be plenty of hobbits to cheer them on without me, Sam." Frodo concentrated upon working tightly-sewn tiny buttons through the buttonholes on his cuffs, and then upon slowly fastening his braces, his fingers awkward on the stiff leather. But he had not actually said 'no', and seemed at least to be considering the prospect of celebration.  
  
"They're not _you_ , Frodo, and your being there would matter to everyone, dearest." Sam's voice was quiet; the facts spoke for themselves: the Master of Bag End had returned, if only for one night, and friends and neighbours would be more than happy to see him. Maybe even _needed_ to see him. And he _had_ accepted the deputy mayorship, though there wasn't a hobbit anywhere any less inclined to exert power and influence over anyone. Especially now, especially after…  
  
Sam bent to gather the remnants of their picnic into a basket, restraining himself from offering to help Frodo dress, though he had helped most efficiently with his undressing, sliding subtle colours open over smooth skin... Everything Frodo wore now was quietly luxurious. Trousers of velvet or softest wool, waistcoats woven in tone on tone brocades; flowing shirts of finest linen – even his nightshirts were shimmering silk, white and ghostly in their rustic room at the Cottons' smial. Everything skilfully tailored in Minas Tirith to fit a lean, well-muscled form that could not seem to fill out further; his old familiar garments, found scattered, wrinkled but unsullied, in the corners of a Crickhollow bedroom, would drape upon him now. Until there was time to make less formal, less _foreign_ , attire, better suited to a life in the Shire, Frodo would remain set apart by simple elegance at first glance. And at a second, by hard won serenity in his every move, and wisdom in eyes that had seen far too much.  
  
Sam straightened; he took a deep breath and blinked hard, willing away the blurred vision that made the sunshine seem to glow right through his very solid love as he leaned against the bed. Waiting patiently for Frodo to finish, he watched the play of light through the dark curls on that dear downcast head.  
  
Every pound of his own roundness had returned, layered over hard muscle from all that walking, letting him slip back easily into his own old work clothes, saved at Crickhollow from burning to ash with his family's home. Just as well – it was easier to pick up the threads of his old life when he at least looked like his old self. Not to mention not wanting to ruin all those beautiful things from Minas Tirith with hard labour. But they suited Frodo, and he wouldn't mind seeing _him_ wrapped always in such finery, if only for the pleasure of unwrapping what was so much finer.  
  
Frodo looked up and met Sam's eyes; he had caught him watching and his lips quirked with amusement as he shook his head fondly. Sam felt a rush of happiness, for he clearly had decided to go, and just as clearly knew that Sam had carefully targeted his suggestions so that he could not, in good conscience, refuse.  
  
"Very well, my love. You are right. I – _we_ – should be there. You know me too well, dear heart."  
  
"Bullseye!" Sam grinned back. He had hoped his gentle reminders would encourage Frodo to be more sociable, now there was a chance and a free evening. There wasn't a day when friends and neighbours hadn't stopped him as he trudged up the Hill to ask after the Master, despite their own worries. Surely a glimpse of hobbits at play would be good for Frodo, for both of them for that matter. And a friendly game of darts at the freshly restored Ivy Bush Inn was likely to provide pleasant distraction. Wouldn't need to stay long – there were far better distractions for afterwards.  
  
"Sam, I do not think I will play tonight, but I would enjoy watching Pippin and Merry have a go. And perhaps you would throw a few, too?"  
  
"Aye, I just might, at that." Sam smiled and reached for Frodo's hand. "It's been a while, hasn't it? I wasn't near the player you were, my dear, but I gave my brothers quite a time."  
  
Sam remembered watching the solemn tween throw with his uncle, whose skill was renowned. The gift ran in the family; Frodo had been very good, with natural dexterity and a focused aim. A few public matches had established a budding reputation, but Frodo preferred less competitive pursuits - the unexplored trail, a new book in the post, a sketchbook and his paints in the garden – and had seemed to have little need to prove his prowess in darts, or anything else.  
  
"'Course, I had an edge from practising with you – and Mr. Bilbo. His aim was deadly! We couldn't have had a better teacher, hmm?"  
  
"None better. He thought _you_ could be one of the best, Sam,"  
  
"Mmm. Maybe. Wanted me to follow in your footsteps, but there wasn't a chance of that." Leastways not in darts. Sam had never wanted to take time away from his first love, gardening (actually, his _second_ love, if truth be told). Though in matters of the heart, he'd follow his Frodo anywhere. And had.  
  
"We'll just see whether I can remember any of what your Uncle said when it counts!"  
  
"What was it he always said? _Hold true and keep your eye upon the eye_ — Oh!" Frodo looked away, his eyes narrowing as he gazed through the open window, seeming to focus far beyond the Hill and the ravaged Party Field below. A breeze soughed through seed husks hanging from dry meadow grasses; crisp brown leaves rustled in the gnarled oak boughs above the smial. He took a deep breath and reached to pick up his coat, covering a small shudder with a light laugh as he struggled to find the arm hole in the tangle of soft wool. "Or something like that… if I remember it right…"  
  
"Aye. That was it. The _bull's eye_ , it was. If he said it once, said it a hundred times." Sam straightened out the fabric and helped slipped the coat over Frodo's arm, then laid his hand upon his shoulder. " _Hold true_ , love."  
  
"I tried. I was never as fine a player as Bilbo. Or as I would have liked to be." Frodo turned to meet Sam's eyes. Fine lines creased his brow and cheeks, deepening as his lips turned down in a wry smile.  
  
"Seems to me you were always fine enough, no matter what it took," Sam insisted, his voice gruff.  
  
"Ah, but you _would_ think so, Sam, dear! If so, it was only because you were by my side, helping me to do and to be the best I could. My hope, my inspiration..." Frodo's gaze softened as he looked into Sam's face, and he pulled him close, wrapping warm arms about him, brushing a tender kiss upon his lips. "My Sam…"  
  
It seemed that they might yet miss any sport at the Ivy to linger in their peaceful bower, but the wind picked up, the shadows grew long, and fragrant wood smoke drifted through the open window from hearth fires lit in the valley, reminding them that an unseasonably warm autumn day would be followed by a crisp autumn night, and if they were to make an appearance, they must go now – and hurry back as soon as they might, to lie in each other's arms in a room that promised a home restored.  
  


~***~

  
  
Bag End's spaciousness and high arched ceilings – and the fact that it was dear to a certain Baggins – had ensured its defilement as Sharkey's headquarters. Although the worst of the filth had been removed – and Sam had told Frodo about every kind neighbour who had fallen in beside him as he trudged up the Hill, 'just to do a little something to help the _real_ master come home' (the Sackville-Bagginses were heartily disliked, but Sharkey had been loathed), restorations must wait until hardworking hobbit hands repaired more vital hurts to their Shire.  
  
Frodo had been determined to stay over for at least one night away from the solicitous intrusions of the Cottons' hospitality. But the ruins of Bag End could offer only a bitter respite and cold comfort for its weary master, and Sam had been equally determined that Frodo would _not_ spend his first night home camping outside it upon hard ground.  
  
It had taken Sam hours, stolen from his hope and misery as he plied his healing touch to the grounds and surrounds of Bag End, to make even one room habitable. The only real possibility in the whole mess had been the smaller guest bedroom, the sole one in which any of Frodo's original furniture remained intact, its furnishings looted but apparently too small to attract (or to have endured) the ill use – _abuse_ – the rest of the smial had suffered. He considered disassembling and shoving the walnut bedstead to Frodo's own bedroom, but its round window had been shattered, and jagged shards of thick glass gouged the floorboards, wedged between them, and threatened a nasty cut. The white curtains fluttered stained and bedraggled; the bed and dresser were splintered – thankfully Frodo's own had been removed to Crickhollow – and the linens fouled. The wreckage was far beyond his ability to mend – yet – and he wished that Frodo need not see it like this again.  
  
But he had done the best he could to make a warm welcome, scrounging a few mismatched things from overlooked corners: a tumble of grubby linens, mended and bleached pale, scented with cleansing juniper, and smoothed over a thoroughly aired featherbed. Two unchipped mugs and a small tin of Frodo's favourite pipe-weed (hidden long ago, so Frodo would never be without when he waited too long to order more, and overlooked in the move). In the kitchen, stinking refuse required numerous trips to the midden and repeated swabbing of the floor before he could bear even to walk on it without washing his feet straightaway; they wouldn't be eating anything prepared there for a good while. In the devastated orchard, scattered branches provided fragrant apple wood to set in the grate. By the shed he found the last of the yellow chrysanthemums and straggling orange bittersweet to tuck in a cracked blue vase left long ago under the work bench. A full box of herbal candles in the cellar – Sharkey's thugs apparently had not thought them worth pillaging – which he burned extravagantly in every room whenever he was there.  
  
It would do, and had done well for their much needed nap, twined in the consolation of each other's arms, lying languid in the slanting autumn light.  
  


~***~

  
  
To say their homecoming to the Shire had been a disappointment wasn't the half of it – _nightmare_ was more like it – but in truth, it was worse than Sam had words for. Since the Battle, he and Frodo had worked doggedly, usually in different parts of the Shire, Sam most often at Hobbiton, Frodo at Michel Delving trying to sort the bloated muddle of the Sherriffs. After long days apart, they would return to the Cottons' house late, grateful for the dinners Mrs. Cotton had set aside for them, but too tired to talk much, almost too tired to eat, wanting only the comfort of each other's body during the too-short nights.  
  
There were cycles and seasons, and Sam had tried hard to see the devastation as just one more - the _last_ \- turn of what had been the hardest cycle he ever wanted to know. But even in the aftermath of disaster, there was a need for rejoicing, for they and the Shire _had_ survived, and this night's celebration would be the first of many in the newly reopened Ivy Bush.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, it heralded the beginning of a happier season for their beloved Shire – and for their love.  
  
They had started out for Bag End before dawn, falling into a familiar rhythm: the thud of their walking sticks, the pad of footsteps they no longer needed to keep silent. Soft morning light and a low floating mist gentled the harsh changes along the Road, and the rustling of small creatures, the rush of a startled deer, and the whirring flight of birds were their first companions. Soon, they could hear the voices of children playing and of farmers hard at work in distant fields. The sharply echoing crack of an axe, the rasp of saw; the fragrance of woodsmoke and the morning's baking bread. Hobbits eager to be about their business, now that they could move freely, raised their hands in friendly greetings as they passed.  
  
The day brightened, promising warmth rare for this late in the year, burning away the chill morning fog as they crested the Hill to Bag End; no swirling trace of mist remained to remind them of a darker day only the week before.  
  
Frodo withdrew from his pocket the heavy key, the hidden spare found beneath pot shards and dirt on the doorstep; it was the only one unsullied by Sharkey's hand. He met Sam's eyes, took a deep breath, unlocked the door – and together they stepped inside to do what they must. Sam pointed out what looked worse than it was but still could be restored, and moved them quickly past what they both could see was too bad to be brought back, and all the while watched Frodo carefully. He was calm in the face of desolation, but one hand was wrapped tightly around the white jewel, even as he squeezed Sam's hand comfortingly with his other.  
  
It had taken the rest of the morning and much of the arduous afternoon - lifting, climbing, and peering into every nook and cranny - to decide what might be salvaged and to plan the mending that Sam would supervise. When they'd seen all that they could stomach, they carried a small table – badly scratched by Lobelia's smashed knick-knacks - a rickety chair, and a chest with a broken hinge to the bedroom. Sighing, Frodo sank down upon the chest and pulled a notebook, a bottle of ink and a quill from his pack. With many a pause to think, brushing the quill absently over his lips, he made notes about their decisions as Sam set forth their first meal together at Bag End, a generous picnic provided by Mrs. Cotton. _'It's hungry work, setting a home to rights, and I won't have you or your master face it on an empty stomach!'_ Well, they'd missed second breakfast and elevenses, and the windfall apples they'd gathered from Bag End's denuded orchard had made a paltry lunch as they wandered through bleak halls. Never mind, neither of them had much appetite then, anyway.  
  
But this one room had been set to rights by Sam's hands, and it offered safe haven for quiet plans and a renewal of hope, and when they had eaten, they rose from what had seemed a feast, and Frodo took Sam's hand, pulling him down onto the bed that Sam had prepared for them.  
  


~***~

  
  
"Tell me, love, how did they manage to restore the Ivy so quickly?" Frodo asked wistfully as he pulled the green door closed behind them; little point in locking it now, for no hobbit would do more damage than already had been done.  
  
"It wasn't nearly as bad as here, me dear. It was closed – they shut down any place hobbits might find strength in numbers – but it wasn't wrecked or burned. Looked like there was at least one drunken brawl, but once they emptied all the kegs hobbits didn't hide, they let it be. I'm sure they'd have made some evil use of it, but the ceilings likely knocked their heads – not nearly hard enough! It's been scrubbed and polished to a fare-thee-well and old Proudfoot's eager for trade. Ale for all, and roasted pig, too. Oh, did I tell you, the old dart board was split?"  
  
"Oh no! Sam, what happened?"  
  
"Sharkey's louts stole it right off the wall. Heard they lobbed darts at each other more'n the board – must've stuck better in their wretched hides. My Gaffer found it two days ago, all dried out and cracked in two places – would need a week's soaking to swell enough to mend, let alone be good for a tourney."  
  
"Oh, that is too bad!"  
  
"Aye , isn't it? But you know my Gaffer, he wasn't to be stopped."  
  
"The proof - there _is_ a dart board and games tonight." Frodo lifted one brow and asked, "So…?"  
  
"Well, Gaffer didn't take kindly to finding it nigh ruined. Had more'n a few hard words for it – but not a one lobbed my way, for some reason."  
  
"Perhaps he noted that you were nowhere nearby when the damage was done?" Frodo asked, dryly. Gaffer's crankiness was every bit as legendary as Bilbo's skill with darts.  
  
"That wouldn't necessarily have stopped him!"  
  
Frodo added, thoughtfully, "Or perhaps he sees that _you_ have grown even more than Pippin and Merry."  
  
"Well, maybe. Don't know that's true, but anyway - we put our heads together and after a while, thought on Andy's ropewalk—"  
  
Frodo frowned, this apparently being a leap or two beyond following.  
  
"My uncle Andy – you remember, don't you?" Sam looked to Frodo with concern.  
  
"Ah, yes. I do. I _think_ I remember everything, now, although if I don't, I would not know, would I?"  
  
"You would. I'd tell you! But here's how Andy's ropes fit in. If the problem is the wood being too hard, and there isn't time to make or soak a new one – or to make a borrowed one ready, even if we could find one fast – and we _have_ to have one right away, then what if… if we were to make a dart board out of rope, cross sections all bundled—"  
  
"Oh! I see. Sam, you're a marvel!"  
  
"Just took some rope, a bit of twine and wire and paint, and there you go!"  
  
"And an excellent idea. An improvement over the old ways. Never a dull dart again."  
  
"And none to break on a bad board tonight and spoil the fun or ruin a wager – though I think Mr. Pippin's would stick in a brick wall, deadly sharp as those points are!"  
  
"Sharp as swords. Forged steel… come to Shire games..." Frodo's words were soft and he looked away, and they walked for a while in silence.  
  


~***~

  
  


  
[](http://photobucket.com)  
_Too Deeply Hurt_  
Illustration for [_A Sporting Chance_](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/16876.html)  


  
  
The stench of smoke and ash hung pungent in the air as they passed the Party Field, its bleak destruction no longer covered by the low floating mists of the morning. The bulk of the Tree stretched lifeless and forlorn, the ragged heartwood of its severed trunk pale between dark circles ringing its long life; broken branches lay strewn on trampled brown grass around a charred pit.  
  
"It should have lived many more years," Frodo said sadly after they stood for a time in the hush of memories.  
  
"Aye. All the trees those brutes chopped down… Thought they'd always be there."  
  
"They should have been, much longer. But not forever; that is not the way things are. No tree, not even our Party Tree, can endure forever. Nothing can live so long – Perhaps elves or the stars might, but who can say?"  
  
"It tears my heart out, Frodo. But everyone's glad to have escaped worse. Thank goodness they don't know how _much_ worse it could've been."  
  
"I wish that they might never have known any of this," Frodo said quietly.  
  
"Aye. But it will heal. And we'll bear it. We have to. Frodo-love, no one knows more about that than you—"  
  
"And you, Sam!"  
  
"Aye, a little bit."  
  
"So many memories…"  
  
"We'll make more, my love. There are plenty of hobbits already turning the trees they didn't throw to the fires to good. Lumber for building the new and repairing the old, hardwoods set aside for fine carving. Cradles and mantles, fiddles and pipes. Woodcarvers will be busy for months. And once spring comes, things will grow. It's a start. The Shire can be well again."  
  
"It is a good start, Sam, sooner than I had feared," Frodo said. "Sam, the Shire will be well, and you, my love, play no small part of its healing!"  
  
"It took the both of us for it even to have a chance – but just give it time!"  
  
"Only time, Sam, only time—"  
  
"Oh, Frodo-love, now we have time, and we're home! At last, despite all! And the Shire will come back, and there'll be trees again, in time – and tonight, darts and dancing on the tables at the Inn, just you wait! And a whole night, together, just for us—" Sam felt a surge of pure joy and he took Frodo's hand, and pulled him close.  
  
"Sam! Oh…!" Frodo's _whuff_ of surprise turned to delighted laughter, clear and pure as festival bells, as Sam lifted him – not quite so easily now that he'd regained his health, if not all his earlier weight – and twirled him around, once, twice, and again before letting him down gently against one of the hedge wood fence rails to press a kiss that left them both breathless.  
  


~***~

  
  
The party atmosphere spilled from the Ivy Bush all the way to the fields at the edge of Hobbiton. A group of lads and lasses playing hoops and sticks raced past, giddy with release. In the field closest to town, a crowd had gathered for a spontaneous game of foot ball, the hobbits apparently only loosely assigned to teams, and seemingly more interested in running and whooping than in paying attention to the several balls in play. Sam and Frodo returned cheerful greetings, but did not stop till they crossed over the stone bridge into town, hesitating to wipe the cold mud of the Road from their feet and to brush their fingers brusquely through the silken hair.  
  
They padded across sun-warmed cobblestones towards the Inn, their shadows sweeping long behind them, their strides matching the visceral drumbeats coming from musicians in the courtyard, and it seemed that they and all about them danced together to the lilting pipe and whistle, a familiar folk tune drifting upon evening's cooling breeze.  
  
"Oh, Frodo, look!"  
  
A troupe of tumblers practised near the Mill before a hastily lettered sign proclaiming their next show – bouncing, climbing, leapfrogging, springing from a low crouch to swing gracefully around tall beribboned poles. Their motley costumes were strung with bits of coloured glass that caught the fading sunlight and scattered it upon brick walls and grey cobblestones and every hobbit nearby.  
  
"It's like Gandalf's fireworks!"  
  
Rainbows dazzled in the air and across faces upturned in wonderment. Sam gasped and reached to Frodo, tracing the quick sparkles that splashed blue and purple and green upon his cheeks and smile, and rippled down over the shining threads and pearl buttons of his waistcoat, swooped away from him to float upon the silver-glinting Water beyond. Coloured lights leapt to dance upon the bare draping boughs of the willows that lined the river bank, were caught by bright stars in the darkening East, then fell to float upon the fast moving current.  
  
A fresh breeze blew over The Water, lifting their hair, carrying the tantalising scent of roasting meat – a spitted pig, turning over a blazing fire in the firepit, attended by a cluster of hobbits who raised mugs of ale and hailed them as they passed.  
  
Snips of conversations drifted toward them, followed them across the threshold of the Ivy Bush, and greeted them inside: the age-old debate about wood-turned or stone-hewn tips, raven or falcon feather flights; the difficulties of turning a perfectly smooth barrel upon a foot-pumped lathe, and whether it might be done more easily if powered with steam. And wouldn't it be a wonder if they could figure out how to make those deadly-looking darts that Tookish cousin of their very own Mr. Baggins had brought. He'd fought with them, they'd heard tell –some kind of war, some place foreign, hadn't it been—  
  
They slipped through the crowd packed inside, unnoticed in the general confusion. One knot of hobbits were watching Sam's Gaffer verify the correct placement of the new dart board and then of the crucial oche – a matter of grave importance to all; another cluster placed wagers as Mr. Proudfoot, the innkeeper, chalked the names of the pairings on the board. Both Merry and Pippin were in the first draw – and there they were, standing almost a head taller than the hobbits hanging on their every word. The new darts – those would be reason enough for such intensity. Every hobbit here would be eager to see them fly, even more eager to give them a try, if it happened that Mr. Took were offering turns.  
  
They managed to draw close enough to hear; Pippin held the crowd in the palm of one hand, his exquisitely crafted darts in the other, their blue and white alternating flights flickering like soaring birds as he gestured.  
  
"…a huge board, tall as a man – too heavy to lift down to soak. They piped water over it to keep it damp all the time, so it was always ready. Amazing thing, that."  
  
"Yes, and an effective draw for the Inn's trade!" Merry laughed.  
  
"Always busy, and some of the finest ale I've ever enjoyed, though not so fine as Mr. Proudfoot's here – but there, it came in pints!"  
  
A small gasp rippled through the crowd and hobbits looked down at mugs that seemed suddenly paltry by comparison.  
  
"Now, Mr. Took, sir, don't you be putting ideas—"  
  
"But there's a _good_ idea, Proudfoot, even if it does come from foreign parts!"  
  
Mr. Proudfoot shook his head at the chorus of enthusiastic 'ayes'. "Settle, lads – a pint's worth to the winners and to any hobbit who scores a double bull!" That met with even greater approval.  
  
"But out in the training grounds, the troops—" Pippin's clear voice was attracting a larger audience. More curly heads turned, and the hobbits close by fell silent; it seemed that there might be a story forthcoming.  
  
"… they'd take the bottom of a beer barrel, paint the numbers just so, and throw knives or spears, and not just for the fun of it, but because it was a life and death matter to be able to hit what you aimed for—"  
  
Merry jumped into the conversation. "That, or practice with bow and arrows. Swords never became a strong point for me, much as I tried. Rock throwing and slingshots, though, now those are skills every hobbit masters—"  
  
An appreciative murmur from the throng encouraged Merry to continue. "But when we were on the march, we made do with a cross section of tree trunk. The growth rings formed a natural bullseye—"  
  
"Well, seems to me you'd still have the problem of it drying out, so I can't say any of that's one whit bit better than what we have here." This pragmatic and somewhat off-topic interruption was from Mr. Bracegirdle, Hobbiton's self-opinionated postmaster, who was generally considered both knowledgeable and quite tolerant of strange things. The crowd swung his direction.  
  
"Aye, hobbit ways are good enough for us—"  
  
"The best, and right here in Hobbiton, too!"  
  
"Better than anywhere, to my mind."  
  
Frodo and Sam exchanged a look, barely managing to suppress amused smiles; some things in the Shire had not changed, and a distaste for change in general was one of them.  
  
"Aye, you take care of a board proper—"  
  
"But it is hard when a tip breaks—"  
  
"Ain't it so… broke my best set. I'm having to use my da's tonight… don't balance near as well in the hand…"  
  
"…shouldn't happen with that new board…"  
  
"…can't hurt to try something new, sometimes—"  
  
"…like those darts of Mr. Took's…"  
  
"…wait'n see how he does with 'em… new-fangled things…"  
  
"…still takes skill, and a good bit o' luck…"  
  
"Mayhap they fly so true, there ain't much skill to it!"  
  
"That be the case, wouldn't be fair to use them if there's wagerin'—"  
  
As the group's attention shifted to the pleasures of genial debate, Merry glanced over and saw them; he smiled, raising his hand in greeting. He stood close to the bar, and with a nod of his head indicated that he would bring their drinks. As he turned, he winked over his shoulder at Sam, mouthing, 'You did it!'  
  
"Did what? Sam, have I been the subject of another conspiracy!" Frodo gave Merry's back a hard look.  
  
"Hmm…" Sam tried to look innocent, but the secret was definitely out. "Aren't you glad you're here?"  
  
"Yes! I am. It reminds me of happier times—"  
  
"Deputy Mayor Baggins and Mr. Gamgee! You came!" Pippin had excused himself from his audience; he threw an arm around Frodo and hugged him. "I wondered what it would take to pry you away from High Officialdom – I should have known that a round of darts would do it! And perhaps a little encouragement from our Sam, hmm?"  
  
Sam shook his head, but grinned.  
  
"Or was it the prospect of hot mulled cider with a dollop of brandy and your feet propped by the hearth fire that appealed to my _old_ cousin?" Pippin teased.  
  
"Ah, you have found me out, my dear!" Frodo smiled fondly, and added, "I must say, any reprieve from mayoral duties is most welcome. I am not sure how Will managed."  
  
"Well, he didn't have quite so many Sherriffs to cope with."  
  
"Nor will he when I hand the job back to him."  
  
"How did you find Bag End—"  
  
"Sam already has worked wonders, though I don't know how he found time. We will tell you about it - later. Now all I want to do is settle over there by the hearth and watch you two show off. Or you three?" Frodo glanced at Sam, who shook his head. He might enter his name for the next draw, if Frodo chose to play, too. But the fun of the evening was being together, whether watching or throwing.  
  
"Show off? Hmmph. Why, cousin, this is deadly serious!" Pippin grinned. "The wagering is high stakes by now – positively intense. Looks to be about as fierce a competition as when Old Rumble and Bilbo met – when was that? Long before my time, and still a record! You _will_ do the honours for the family name, won't you?"  
  
"No, not tonight," Frodo said, shaking his head.  
  
"But Frodo—"  
  
"The family honour will have to rest upon _your_ prowess, Pippin." Frodo smiled easily, then turned to Sam. "Though Sam perhaps would represent Bag End?"  
  
"Yes, certainly, Sam must play – but Frodo, there's coin resting on you, too!"  
  
"And so much greater the reason that I will not play." Frodo spoke lightly, but his eyes were shadowed, and his right hand tightened to a fist, held stiffly at his side.  
  
Oh, no. Of course – Sam kicked himself for not realising sooner what Frodo must have known immediately, the moment he'd mentioned darts. Frodo no longer was _able_ to throw competitively. And there weren't any darts in all of Middle-earth that would make it so, not even Pippin's.  
  
"Aye, Mr. Bilbo's record would be hard to beat, but my bet's on you, Mr. Pippin. You'd be just the hobbit to do it, even without those fine new darts of yours," Sam spoke smoothly as he moved closer to Frodo, his body concealing his gentle caress to Frodo's hand. He twined their fingers together, holding securely as he felt Frodo relax. "They're the envy of Hobbiton, from what I've heard!"  
  
"They do give an edge, don't you think? I'm eager to measure them against the best in the Shire. But I do wish you'd play, Frodo – _ow_!" Pippin scowled at Merry, who had returned to hear much of the exchange; Merry had elbowed him none too gently, despite his grip on the two mugs of ale he held forth.  
  
"Frodo, Sam – Proudfoot's finest?"  
  
"Thank you." Frodo slipped from Sam's gentle hold; he met Pippin's eyes and lifted his right hand to take the offered mug, curving three fingers securely around the pewter handle. Sam took his mug quickly, nodding his thanks, but his eyes never left Frodo's face.  
  
"I – oh." Pippin's gaze locked on Frodo's hand and his expression was rueful as Frodo raised the mug to his lips and drank. He laid his hand gently upon Frodo's shoulder. "I'll play my best for both of us, Frodo. Some night soon, you and I will have an even better game; you might find these new darts suit you."  
  
"Yes, I would like that. But now, dear, you must go, for it is time."  
  


~***~

  
  
Several rounds went by, and at first it was a pleasure simply to stand in the warm press of the crowd, swaying to the thrill of each player's turn. But as the play wore on, high spirits and free-flowing ale made for jostling sharp elbows and spilled drinks. Frodo said not a word when one hobbit backed into him; but he frowned as another trod on his foot, apologized profusely, if somewhat drunkenly, as he was swept back into the crowd.  
  
"Frodo, there could still be someplace to sit in the back… we can't see as well, but I don't mind, if you don't." Sam had to lean close to make himself heard as the crowd noise swelled.  
  
Frodo nodded; he wasn't fond of rowdiness on his most outgoing day. With difficulty, they wove their way towards Bilbo's old favourite table, tucked between the westernmost window and a cheerfully crackling hearthfire, from which they would be able to see the form of the player's throws, if not the actual placement of the darts. Conversation swirled thick as the pipesmoke around them, but there were few hobbits they knew as they pushed through the crowd, Sam in the lead.  
  
"Did you hear… great warriors… Mr. Brandybuck… Took… darts… battle… Mr. Baggins, too – there he is, now."  
  
The loud voice belonged to Robin Smallburrow, who rose from Mr. Bilbo's table – not a vacant seat anywhere near it – as they approached. Hobbiton born and bred, he'd long since left town to serve as a Sherriff, one of many caught up in Sharkey's net; after their recent encounter on the Road, Sam could happily have gone a good while longer without seeing him.  
  
"Hoy, Sam, there you are! We were just talking about you—" But it wasn't Sam that Smallburrow was looking at so curiously, and it wasn't possible for Frodo and him both to squeeze away quickly from the heads swiveling towards them with unwanted attention.  
  
Sam bristled; he doubted the talk was about any Gamgee, and didn't much like the thought of it being about a Baggins. There always had been talk, and another Baggins who had left for an Adventure and come back to act as Deputy Mayor was bound to be gossip fodder, and a sight more interesting than the current lull between rounds. He glanced at Frodo, who was composed as always – and why in the world _would_ he be rattled by any hobbit of the Shire after what else he'd faced? Still, Sam felt a nagging sense that there was something, something he was not quite grasping…  
  
"Aye, Robin, how are you?" Sam stepped forward to greet him as cordially as he could manage, reminding himself that, to his credit, Robin had tried to be helpful last time he saw him in a gaggle of Sherriffs.  
  
"Doing well enough, thank you. And you look fit as can be. All that wandering about must agree with you!"  
  
"Wandering?" Sam stifled his grimace. "I suppose it does."  
  
"I was hoping you'd be here." Robin looked past Sam to Frodo, who seemed to be listening attentively to a conversation on his other side. "And Mr. Baggins, too. Will he be playing tonight? He used to have a way of taking his time to set up a throw… Almost as good as the old Master, he was; t'would be the next best thing to Mr. Bilbo himself being here, 'specially seeing as how he's not likely to show up. Though you never can tell with those—" Robin apparently noticed Sam's scowl. "Erm… _will_ he be playing? My coin's on him if he does."  
  
"That would be up to him," Sam said, somewhat curtly.  
  
"Sir, Mr. Baggins, please, sir…" This from a hobbit who rose to his feet beside Robin, forestalling whatever response Robin might have made to Sam's brusqueness. Sam peered at him; he looked familiar, but he wasn't local. Sam couldn't quite place him, though something unpleasant niggled at him.  
  
"Yes?" Frodo turned a calm gaze upon the hobbit standing shyly before him. A pockmarked fellow, his cheeks were ruddy and his nose large; his eyes brown and wide, and while obviously nervous, twisting the hem of his jackets in his hands, he stared boldly at Frodo. Sam looked at him with some suspicion, tensing onto the balls of his feet in case he needed to make a sudden move.  
  
"Sir, beggin' your pardon, I'm Isom Smallburrow – of the Frogmorton Smallburrows?" He looked a question at them, but Sam didn't know a single Frogmorton Smallburrow, to the best of his recollection. This one took a deep breath, screwing up his courage, and went on, seemingly determined to have his say.  
  
"Robin, here, is my cousin, sir, twice removed on my father's side. Well, sir, begging your pardon, sir, I'm in town to help the family, and Robin mentioned that he saw you come in, sir, and Mr. Gamgee, and… I want to do something, sir, even a little thing… to show… I'm sorry, sir." The poor fellow's broken words ground to a stop, and he heaved a deep sigh, clasped his hands together and ducked his head, mumbling. "I'm sorry, sir, you probably don't remember me at all…"  
  
"I do remember you." Frodo's voice was serious but his eyes were softened by a gentle smile. "I said that I would not forget, did I not?"  
  
Oh. _That_ was where he'd seen him – this fellow was the very hobbit who had tried to arrest Frodo as he returned to his beloved Shire, whose dogged insistence upon something so wrong had been met by stern resolve, dry humour – and forgiveness. Then, Sam had laughed, while at the same time wanting to pummel the fool for his impudence. But he found that now, after seeing so much desolation for himself, he felt only pity for yet another hobbit of the Shire who had endured too much – and maybe more than he'd quite been able to bear up under. Pity - so long as the fool didn't breathe so much as a word out of line. Sam spared a glare to Robin and shifted a little closer to Frodo.  
  
"Aye, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Only a whisper, as a blush suffused Isom's cheeks and nose, rising to the very tips of his ears, and he would not look up as Frodo continued.  
  
"I am glad to meet you in better times than those when first we met. I forgave you then, lad. There are many things that can make us do otherwise than we wish that we had done."  
  
"Aye, sir, thank you, sir, and don't I know it… well, sir, just thank you, sir. I heard some of what _you_ did… at the Battle and all, and you kept some hobbits I care about from doin' what they'd want not to, too, if you know what I mean." This last was mumbled in a confused rush, but Sam didn't have any problem taking his meaning, and he could see from Frodo's face and the tension in his body that he didn't either.  
  
"Please, sir, won't you accept this small thing, for all… here, sir, have a seat." He pulled out the chair from which he had risen and gestured awkwardly. "It's no bother, and Robin and me were going to go stand closer, anyway, weren't we, Robin?"  
  
Robin appeared befuddled, but nodded vigorously.  
  
"Thank you. You are most kind, Mr. Smallburrow – or is it still Sherriff?"  
  
"Oh, no, sir, not me! I farm, now, like I always wanted. But Robin here, he's been one since he came of age, and a good one, too, sir."  
  
"I am sure he is, and I remember that he was a friend to Sam, and to me, when few dared to be." Frodo nodded cordially to Robin.  
  
"Thank ye, sir, and please, good evening to you, and to you, too, Sam… Mr. Gamgee… er… Sam… Sir…?" Robin gestured to his own chair; he looked curiously at Sam, but Sam just smiled pleasantly at him, thinking grimly that there were far deeper changes in him than whatever had confused Robin.  
  
Frodo sank back into the chair that Isom had offered, tucked in the corner by the window, about as far from the bustle as one could be seated and still be inside the Inn, and Sam pulled Robin's chair close and sat down beside him.  
  
A silence fell near the dart board and the conversation to which Frodo had been listening earlier seemed suddenly loud.  
  
"Who'd've thought hobbits would battle like we done here?"  
  
"Or fight 'longside men, according to Mr. Took, if you can believe it."  
  
"Elves, too!"  
  
"And dwarves – heard they rode dragons!"  
  
"The dwarves?"  
  
"Everyone, far as I can tell."  
  
"Heroes, they were—"  
  
"Saw 'em at Bywater – bold as you please—"  
  
"'Specially that Brandybuck, and the Took lad, all grow'd up now—"  
  
"You heard Mr. Took's talk about weapons practice—"  
  
"…arrows and swords, and even the darts tipped with steel…"  
  
"… like spears they were—"  
  
"Did you see how they flew?"  
  
"His?"  
  
"Like arrows—"  
  
"…sharp as, too!"  
  
"Sharp as swords—"  
  
"… as if you'd know a sword!"  
  
"…I'd like to—"  
  
"Wish I'd had a big one, last week—"  
  
"Killin' sharp, they'd be—"  
  
"… never know when you might need it, these days—"  
  
Was it any wonder that hobbits blooded in battle – armed only with rocks, hunting bows, and tools turned from tilling and trade, grieving neighbours fallen beside them – would relish tales of bold warriors, glinting forged swords, and lightning fast arrows – weaponry that could turn the unerring aim in every hobbit's fingertips to protection against any who would harm those they loved?  
  
Sam could understand – oh, yes, indeed, for he knew well the worth of a glowing sharp sword coupled with a fierce spirit – but he'd not thought to need it here, in the peace of their Shire. He scowled, for Frodo was pale beside him, looking toward the window, and Sam could see his face reflected in the blackness beyond. His eyes were closed and his lips downturned, and it was clear that he had heard every word.  
  
"Frodo, love?"  
  
Frodo looked back to Sam, only a quick glance, his eyes dark and solemn, and his smile sad and filled with love.  
  
Hurts far worse than his hand had made a favourite sport impossible, and Sam knew that he never again would watch his love play at darts, or hear his laughter, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he shifted his balance to his leading foot, leaning from the oche, his arm a fluid arc, his hand opening smoothly in release, and the dart sailing straight and true into the heartwood.  
  
Sam could not find the heart to throw a round tonight, nor maybe any other, for something had changed, and Shire sport had been overlaid with the knowledge of fighting and death. And every dart he held in hand would recall an heirloom double-edged sword, its legacy foresworn upon a barren plain, gifted to him with resigned words of love, spoken through bitter ash.  
  
  


~***~

  
  
Subtle colours slid open over warm, soft skin, and moonlight turned everything else as silver as forged steel.  
  
"Hold me, Sam…"  
  
"Like this, love, always."  
  
Joined, they fell asleep, filled and fulfilled, wrapped together in the tender promise of their lives restored. For their Shire, for each other, and for their love, there was yet a sporting chance.  
  


_~finis~_

  
  



End file.
